What if
by Never the End127
Summary: If he had a nickle for every time she had nearly shot herself in the foot while she attempted to unload her gun... trying to explain the concept of rules to her was like trying to explain to the dream-team scientists, FitzSimmons, how to use contractions. (A series of one shots, featuring Skye and Ward. Genre's vary from angst to fluff to drabble and more.


**A/N—okay guys, don't hate me for this—I'm pretty down right now and I have decided to vent my frustration of Joss Whedon's poor, unsuspecting characters. (Beware, there is major character death in this chapter.) Bear in mind, please, that these one-shots all take place in different universes—different versions of the same story. So don't get mad. But, I will consider it an accomplishment as a writer if I manage to get at least one person to tear up a little. I feel like this is ridiculously long, but I can't delete any of it—it all feels too important.**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy.**

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He never should have left her alone.

Ward's hands are fisted together, resting limply on his knees, but he doesn't feel them. He can't feel the rain pounding down on his back and soaking into his clothes, can't hear it, even though he conscious of water dripping down into his eyes. He feels numb.

He thinks sometimes it's better to feel that way.

For some reason, it's now that Ward can remember that last day. It was raining then, too. Pouring, really, water hammering down so hard against the windows of the bus that he and Skye had nearly had to shout to be overheard.

He can't remember what they were talking about that day. Probably something stupid, and pointless and childish and so completely significant because he wants so badly to remember that. The afternoon before he left.

Ward can remember what she looked like, if nothing else. Choppy coils of thick, bronze hair raked up into a loose ponytail, the first four buttons of her shirt undone like she knows he's staring. Her pajama pants and slipper socks, curled up on the couch and looking ready to fall asleep, even as Ward ruthlessly continued his argument about whatever it was they had been fighting about that day.

He hadn't expected the call. But when it came, he didn't question it.

"You sure you're going to be okay on your own?" He had asked her, feigning a blunt pleasantry to disguise genuine concern.

She had rolled her eyes, torn between annoyance at being underestimated by him again, and adoration that he still felt this giant sense of responsibility to safeguard her wellbeing.

"I'll be fine, G. You're not my SO anymore, it's not your job to worry. Now get out there and kick some mad scientist butt." She said, using the same voice she always did—throwing around words and dumb nicknames and allusions carelessly, like she truly didn't care.

It was her first mission without him, right there, standing over her shoulder. She had been with SHIELD for nearly three years, and he still felt the need to be right there with her. While Ward is away helping Fury at HQ, she and the rest of the team will be searching for evidence to pin against this new group of mad scientists—a cooperation called Praxis.

"Just try not to blow anything up while I'm away." He reminded her.

"Gotcha." She had followed suit, rising to her feet to pad across the smooth wooden floors to face him as he slipped on his jacket. "No playing with FitzSimmons equipment, no blowing anything up, listen to Agent May, try to avoid anything that could be considered any possible form of fun."

"You got it." He had told her.

"So…" She takes a step closer and he barely suppresses a shiver as her hands curl around the side of his jacket. "You're… still worrying about me?"

A red light was going off in his brain now, telling him to take two steps back like he always has. He doesn't listen to it, at least not at first.

"I didn't think that super-secret ninja spies of the famous SHIELD were supposed to form attachments." She had reminded him, and he caught the undertone of bitterness in her voice.

Skye doesn't need to spell it out for him. He knows what she's talking about.

It's one of the excuses he's been using, one that has worn out years ago, just like all the others. Excuses like he was too old for her. Like the knowledge that forming relationships where never a good idea in this line of work. That he was her SO and it wasn't appropriate, or that they simply weren't compatible. They weren't a good fit.

But these were all excuses that had worn out long ago, and they both knew it. He can still remember that one night, six months after the battle with Centipede— she had kissed him, long, sweet, slow, almost drowsily, like she had all the time in the world. And he hadn't stopped her. She pulled away first.

There was that one night that she had come back from a recon mission with three flesh wounds on her side and her arm, where a few bullets had just barely grazed her. Ward was furious. He didn't understand how she could ever have been so careless. He had yelled at her, and she had yelled back, and somehow, for reasons neither could explain, it ended with Skye lying flat on her back and gasping breathlessly as Ward pressed her against the hard wood floor with clumsy, reckless kisses peppered all over her skin.

Now, Skye had leaned in, expecting him to cheat his deal at least once and give her a quick peck goodbye.

But he knows himself, and he knows her. And he knows that one quick peck on the lips will lead to more, which will lead to her long, tapered fingers twisting into his hair and his hands roaming more than can be considered 'friendly.' And Ward just couldn't deal with that right now. So he just didn't deal with it—possibly his only way of handling things like this.

"No." He had said, solidly, unmoving, the way his voice was when he wasn't going to budge. "Skye, don't. I'm… I'm leaving now."

And she just nodded like she expected this answer. But he caught that moment of hesitation. That little flicker of disappointment that crossed her face, just before she pressed her lips into a line and gave him her classic, 'well, what are you going to do,' shrug, before he pulls away and turns to head off the bus. He doesn't look back.

The mission went surprisingly well. Almost too easily—he and Fury both had questioned that, and at the moment, that was Agent Ward's primary concern.

He got back to the base and expected to board the bus accordingly as soon as his plane touched the ground. He was ready to be back with his team. As much as he hated them at times, as much as he hated Fitz getting his snack food crumbs everywhere and Simmons prattling on for hours about the weather and Skye's endless, childish questions, they had become his new normal. Once he was back with his team, he would finally be able to relax.

It wasn't until they had arrived back at headquarters that Coulson got the phone call.

"Agent Coulson." Ward could remember how he had clicked the button on the communicator in his earlobe, how his expression had changed from curious to sinister in seconds. "We'll be there."

"Sir?" Ward had asked.

"Come with me, Agent Ward." Coulson had started towards the car. "We're going back."

When they arrived at the loading dock, just at the entrance of the bus in the SHIELD base in Washington, the first thing they saw were three shadowy figures standing just at the end of the ramp. As they had driven closer, Ward could see them through the windshield—there was Simons, leaning with her head on Fitz's shoulder, braced against the rain with her hand, crumpled and wrapped in plastered blue bandages, to her chest.

Fitz hovered above her, glaring down at the asphalt and cradling a broken arm. May, however, out of all of them had looked the worst—she was sporting so many bandages and stitches that it was hard to tell that it was actually May at all. Red and blue and purple bruises were blossoming over everyone's skin, and he could hear Coulson speaking through his communicator beside him—

Ward interrupted his own train of thought as he looked around at the entrance of the landing platform—the only other people there were mechanics, checking up on the bus before it took off again. Where was Skye?

And then he had understood.

Ward doesn't remember getting out of the car. He doesn't remember feeling anything—the rain on his back, the voices of his teammates, the sobs, the explanations that had tumbled out in a barely discernible rush that Ward neither understood, nor wanted.

It hadn't been a recon mission. It had been an ambush. When they had gotten into New York with the lead that a new, centipede-inspired lab was being set up, they were cornered and nearly picked off one by one. Fitz and Simmons, who hadn't been anywhere near Skye and May when they were attacked, had escaped with superficial injuries. A few broken fingers here and there, a few stitches and bruises and they were fine.

May had suffered heavy internal bleeding and had supposed to be in the hospital when Ward and Coulson landed. But she had wanted to be there. She had wanted to be the one to tell them what had happened to Skye.

Skye had been shot eight times in the chest. Three of the bullets had hit her from behind, two had come from the side, and the other three had hit her just beneath the neck. May assures them that it was quick. Clean. That by the time the girl had hit the ground, she was probably already dead.

Ward is the only one who doesn't cry.

They had all boarded the plane, Simmons sobbing into Fitz's shoulder as Fitz rasps on in this choked, barely-voice about hope, about love, about how she would always live on in our hearts and in our memories. That Skye wouldn't have wanted us to be sad.

Ward couldn't remember a time in his life when he had wanted to hurt Fitz more than he did now. And he didn't know why.

Over in the next room, May is standing anxiously in the doorway, looking like some frightened, mousy little housewife—dressed only in street clothes and carrying no weapons, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, she suddenly doesn't look dangerous. She looks hurt. Confused.

Ward finds himself hating her too.

He could hear Coulson in the other room, yelling into the phone, something about catching the bastard that did it. Ward's familiar with this pattern. When you can't grieve, you seek revenge. And when you can't seek revenge, you shut everything else out. You put up walls, you stop letting people in, you stop acting like a human being—stop thinking, stop feeling, stop loving.

Because it's easy. Because it's safe.

Its then that Ward decides he hates himself a little, too.

All he can feel is anger, and he's scared to let that go. He's scared that if he lets go of that blinding rage, that he'll lose everything else. It's all he has now. So he stays angry. Angry at Simmons for being weak, at Coulson for being rash, angry at May for letting her emotions get in the way of everything else.

Angry at Fitz, because he knows that Fitz loved her. If Leo had been given the opportunity to be with Skye, he wouldn't have stalled for time like Ward had. He's angry because he wishes he could have been everything that Fitz was for her—wishes he had been gentler with her, wishes he had taken the time to listen and understand. It doesn't change anything.

He flashes back to that last night, every time. He had been given a chance to say goodbye, right before he left the plane to let her take off on a mission all by herself. He hadn't warned her to be careful, hadn't given her any advice. He had pulled away when she had offered him a kiss.

Now he'll never get to say goodbye.

In two weeks, they haven't caught Skye's killer and everyone is still on edge. Simmons has been crying for days. Coulson paces for hours every night. And May never stops glaring.

In a month, the team has a new hacker. Her name is Alyssa and she's pretty and kind and the most positive, sweet-tempered person on the face of the earth and Ward hates her.

He goes out of his way to make everything her fault, puts her down every chance he gets, attacks her every mistake with a kind of harsh cruelty that he never used with anyone, especially Skye.

But he can't help but notice that she's talented. He can't help but notice how easily she can decrypt any file they give her, how fast and effeciantly she can hack into any security base she wants to. At some point, Fitz tells Alyssa that she's probably the most talented hacker he's ever met, and Ward just gives him this _look_, and Leo stays out of his way for a week.

He hates everything about her, from her candy-pink lips to the way her fingernails make this annoying clicking sound when she taps codes into the computer. He hates the way she winds those long, butter-blond curls around her pencil while she's thinking and the way she always has to have everything a certain way. Skye was never so much of a perfectionist. Skye was never so dainty, so _fragile_, so forgettable.

May tells Coulson that things will get better and they don't.

Alyssa moves into Skye's old bunk and Ward acts so cold that eventually, Coulson pulls him aside and tries to talk to him about it. Ward acts like he can't hear Coulson and that's that.

But of course, Alyssa _understands _what he's going through. She wants him to know that she didn't mean to upset him, and she hopes that he knows she isn't trying to take Skye's place. She is _sympathetic._

"We all grieve in different ways." He once overheard Simmons explaining to a bemused Fitz, who couldn't understand why Ward didn't fawn over that perfect little paper doll, the one who had faded in to take Skye's place.

But no matter how often people tell him that it's not his fault, he'll never be able to believe it. In his dreams, he sees it happen. Everything is in shades of black and gray, except for her blood. Her blood is always red, and its everywhere. He watches the bullets jerk her body violently, watches her crumple, watches the ribbons of red streaming down through her fingers and her hair.

In his dreams, she doesn't die right away. She screams for him to help her, cries out for help. In his dreams it's always long and painful and slow, and she dies alone, thinking that he never cared for her and knowing that he's never coming.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, every night, and doesn't get back to sleep after that. He just stands near his window, watching the glittering outlines of cities floating in and out of view and biting his lips until they bleed.

But that's alright. He doesn't feel it.

He doesn't feel much of anything anymore.

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**A/N- okay, so please don't hate me for killing her off. love you guys, please leave me your thoughts! PS: I don't own this show or any of it's characters.**


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